Fifty Grand

I was nearly finished sweeping when Jack came back into the living room, sat on Paul’s sofa, and flipped on the TV. He was sipping a pink foaming beverage and muttering to himself, “Bastards, all the luck. That bald fucker.”

The identity of the bald fucker was not immediately obvious but when a saturnine man with receding hair appeared at the front door I wondered if I was about to see some real fireworks.

“Can you get the door… uh, María?” Jack said.

I went to the door, opened it, and the man pushed past. “I’m expected,” he said. Jack looked up but did not seem particularly enthused.

“Hey, Jack, how ya doing? How’s the vacation going?” the man said.

“Bob, Bob, Bob, I’m screwed, old buddy.”

Bob sat in the chair opposite Jack. “You seem upset. What’s the matter?”

“Uhh, Paul got this urgent call this morning from Bill Geiss at CAA. Focus is pulling the movie from spring. Earliest we can roll now is fall-if it’s going to roll at all. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“What movie is this?”

“The only movie, Gunmetal. Man, I had all my eggs in that Titanic. Jesus. Turned down a coupla things. Supposed to be in L.A. for rehearsals in two weeks. And of course Greengrass is in Fiji or somewhere, can’t be reached.”

Bob nodded. “What does Paul say?”

“He doesn’t think it’s dead. He’s trying to get information. Tell you, this fucking project has been jinxed from the start. The things I’ve been through. You’ve no idea. The retooling. The re-fucking-imagining. Halo and Doom killed the original video game concept. Now it’s about a nineteenth-century Brit thrown into the future.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, it does. Originally it was a Jude Law vehicle, about a million fucking years ago.”

“Is it the writers’ strike? Those bastards are lucky we allow them in the building. In Selznick’s day he’d have fired the lot of them.”

“No. Nothing to do with the writers, it’s something else, I don’t know what’s going on.”

Bob smiled reassuringly. “Look, don’t get yourself worked up. You don’t know anything yet.”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t need to know. I’m jinxed, man. I could’ve had Colin Farrell’s role in Minority Report. Missed that by a whisker. That was a star-making vehicle, Christ. Me and Cruise for real, not just ‘Here’s your coffee, sir,’ in MI3. Would have buddied up. Jesus, I’d’ve let him convert me, I swear to God.”

“You should watch that tape on You Tube, you have to be certifiable,” Bob said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, insane all the way to the bank. In Hollywood they’re third only to the gays and Jews. No offense, Bob.”

Bob smiled. “None taken. I’ve heard worse. I worked with Peckinpah.”

“Really. What was the project?”

Bob shook his head. “The reason I bought a house here was to get away from the bullshit and shop talk.”

“Sorry, yeah, me too. Yeah, you’re right. You’re right. Let’s talk about something else. When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“From L.A.?”

Bob turned to look at me. “Can she be trusted?”

Jack smiled. “María? Me and María go way back. Don’t be fooled. She’s not a maid, she’s remaking that Ally Sheedy movie, this is her method. Ain’t that right, María?”

“Sí, Señor Jack.”

Bob grunted and continued. “Might have a deal cooking. I’ll talk to Paul. We might be getting The Hobbit sorted out. Hush-hush. Anyway, no, I was in Scottsdale. Hundred degrees in December. I was at the club. Ever been there, the Happy Valley Country Club? Nice place. Anyway, I quit my round halfway through. Except for those struck by lightning or in the throws of cardiac arrest, it was an event without precedent.”

Jack nodded but I could tell he wasn’t really listening. “Too expensive to quit,” Bob explained. “Golf was meant to be played on rainy Scottish moors with the ambient temperature at a brisk fifty degrees or so. A hundred in the shade is not my cup of tea. Ever been to St. Andrews?”

“I don’t play golf, Bob,” Jack said.

I went into the kitchen and didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. I had finished all the cleaning I could do downstairs. I rummaged in my shoulder bag, took out the Japanese ice, and put it in the medicine cabinet. I closed the cabinet door and examined myself in the mirror. I looked tired, older. The lack of sleep, the stress. I frowned in the mirror and found that I was oddly put out. What’s the matter, Mercado?

I searched my feelings and found that it wasn’t the mission that was bothering me, it was Jack.

Jack?

For some reason I was irritated looking bad in front of him, I was annoyed at his indifference and his joke at my expense.

“Good God, Mercado, this is the last thing you need,” I muttered to my reflection. Surely you don’t have a crush on the movie star? The reflection shook her head. No. I hadn’t seen any of his films, he was vain, he was five years older than me, and he had the maturity of Lieutenant Díaz back in Havana.

No. That wasn’t it at all.

I ran my finger under the faucet and smoothed out my eyebrows. I pulled the lipstick from my pocket and put some on.